Shadows In A Mirror
by Sequoia
Summary: An alternate universe tale (Jean Grey, Charles Xavier, Scott Summers)


  
  
  
_This story formed when I began wondering what Xavier would have been like had he never lost the use of his legs. Did his handicap make him a better or more selfless person? Did it make him more compassionate and more understanding to those in need? What would he and the world have been like if he had never had to overcome an obstacle that large? While the story still takes place in the not so distant past of a world where Xavier was always able to walk; it did however change into something completely different than what was originally intended. ._  
  
  


_Shadows In A Mirror_

  
  


She brushes her hair with long, slow strokes; and it falls over her bare shoulders like a cascade of crimson silk in the dim light. 

With seamless motion she gathers the mass of hair in her small hands and twists it up, securing it with a jeweled comb that reflects off the mirror, bouncing light crystals across the room like a shower of tiny stars. 

She rises from the vanity and makes her way to the bed where her gown has been laid out. It is beautiful, gold brocade and a simple, slender cut, and when she puts it on she forgets, just for an instant, all of her troubles. For the moment she is a princess going to her first ball, where she will dance and be loved by all; and the kind prince will take her away from the evil king. 

A brisk knock on her door shatters the illusion, bringing her back to the harshness of reality. She is a fool to believe there could be a fairytale ending for her. Once upon a time she had believed she had found her white knight, that her life was something out of a storybook. Then the fantasy had ended and she knew too late she was inextricably tangled in one man's distorted world. 

Shaking slightly she goes to the oaken night stand, removing from the cabinet a small glass which she fills halfway with Amontillado from a heavy decanter. 

The door opens and she jumps, almost dropping the glass. Unbidden, her husband's most valued man enters her chambers. She has always been afraid of Demarcen, for she knows what he is paid to do and how much he enjoys it. She is all too aware that his charm and propriety is simply a mask that hides the monster lurking beneath. 

He looks her over with piercing eyes, making her feel vulnerable and exposed. "You look lovelier than I could have imagined, Mrs. Xavier." He smiles and it almost seems genuine. "As soon as you are ready, it shall be my honor to escort you down to the celebration." He will be watching her tonight, making sure that she does not do anything she is not supposed to. She should be used to it by now; but it still sends a chill down her spine. 

He turns as he leaves. "I believe Mr. Xavier has told you that he does not wish you to drink. I do not think it would be a wise course of action to even taste that." 

She stares at the pale, amber liquid and raises the cool glass to her lips, inhaling the heady odor. She needs to drink, needs to defy her husband in this small way. The memory of a night three years past when Charles had broken her of her fondness for cigarettes surfaces and she shudders as she pours the sherry down the sink. 

Not now. Not tonight. Charles is in a good mood. There is no reason to upset him with meaningless and childish defiance. Except that it's not meaningless. And childishness is all she has the strength for any more. 

Walking down the main staircase is as much of an emotional journey as a physical one. With each step she pushes her true feelings a little deeper, smiles a little wider, slips a little further into what is expected of her, loses a little more of her soul. 

The ballroom is already filled with guests, laughing, talking, mingling, all there to congratulate Charles on the Xavier Alliance for Coexistence's latest victory. She greets the ones she knows, nods politely at the ones she doesn't. Demarcen gently but firmly guides her through the room, and she resents the implication that she could not do this on her own, even though it is true. 

There is a small crowd surrounding her husband, hanging on his every word, and they part like the sea for her. Charles smiles warmly when he sees her, and she is reminded that once he was human too. At times it shows through; but it never lasts for long. Charades rarely do. 

"Darling!" He kisses her on the cheek, encircling her waist with his arm. "You're beautiful." She blushes and kisses him back. A lifetime ago she had loved him, or thought she had, and a few of those feelings still remain. 

"You recognize Senator Kelly, don't you, darling?" She turns to see the Senator, one of the minority of public figures who do not support her husband unquestionably. Charles must be trying to woo him again. "Senator, I'd like you meet my wife, Jean. She's a big fan of yours." Not a total fabrication. She has been watching Robert Kelly recently; but not for the reasons Charles believes. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Xavier." The Senator kisses her hand lightly, and attempts to bring her into their conversation, for which she is grateful. After only a few minutes of discussion of politics, she feels Charles' mind in her's, telling her not to worry about such things, they don't concern her. She may talk to any of his staunch supporters about whatever she pleases; but to no one who's loyalties are in doubt. 

She excuses herself politely and turns to hide the anger in her eyes. If only she still had her powers, he wouldn't dare to treat her like this. Sometimes the anger at him is so strong in her soul she feels as if it will consume her like a raging inferno; but it always turns to anger at herself and then deep sadness, which drowns the last flames of hostility in her. 

It is her own fault she is powerless. Everything Charles did to her was done with her permission. She should not have believed him when he said it was for her own good, that if he did not prevent her from ever reaching her full potential that she would be a danger to herself and others. He wanted to make sure he could control her without trouble, without interference, and so he had destroyed her. 

The fraction of her power that remains is a bittersweet reminder of what she lost, of what could have been. It is also a small, treasured comfort, for while she cannot use it against anyone directly, it does allow a small part of her mind to remain alone, a part that he can never invade or conquer as he has done to the rest of her being, time and time again. It is just enough to let her have a few secrets, just enough to keep her sane. 

Hours pass, and the clock strikes midnight, the birth of a new month. She has given up chatting nonsensically about trivialities with the guests and has taken up residence in a comfortable chair outside the ballroom, forbidden drink in hand, sleep on her mind. She has been enjoying watching the guests without them knowing, since her resting place is cloaked in darkness, and thus hidden from their view. She picks a stranger out and creates a life for them, sometimes exciting, sometimes not. Always wondering what brought them to this place at this time. Then she moves on to the next one. 

Her solitude is undisturbed, a rarity she cherishes. During the first hour Demarcen had looked in on her every quarter hour, to make sure she was still where he had left her. Then, to her great delight, he had been thoroughly distracted by a dark eyed brunette who seemed to mesmerize him, something that did not happen often. Demarcen enjoyed women as much as the next man, and probably more often; but it was not their conversational skills that held his interest. There must be something special about this one, for him to be so enthralled without taking her away from the party. 

She is contemplating whether or not to warn the woman when a tall, thin man steals by her and makes his way down the dark hall. Suddenly wide awake, she watches curiously as he enters her husband's study. A glance at Demarcen shows he hasn't seen anything, his attention soley on the brunette; and Charles is on the far side of the ballroom with his back to her, as he has been for most of the night. It is not likely he is spying on her, and the alcohol has diminished her resolution to do only what she is told. 

She feels her way down the hall, moving as silently as a whispered breeze, and slips into the study, closing the door gently behind her. The room is empty and dark but she catches a slight movement in the corner of her eye. 

"I know you're in here," she says with a smile. "You can come out, I'm not going to tell on you. I promise." 

There is a sudden rustle and strong arms grab her from behind before she can move; a hand covers her mouth, threatening to clamp down if she tries to scream. She does not feel frightened of the stranger, or even nervous. She knows that if he was going to hurt her, he would have done it already. 

"How do I know you're not going to scream, or run for help the second I let you go?" He whispers in what she assumes he thinks is a menacing tone; but it is a far cry from the ones she is familiar with and she stops herself from laughing. 

"Because," she whispers conspiratorially, "if I tell them that you were in here, they'll know that I was in here; and I don't want that." 

"You're not allowed in your husband's study?" He sounds surprised. She notices he smells of Ivory soap and masculinity and ever so slightly of pine needles after rain. He can't be much older than than her, and that realization relaxes her even more. It has been so very long since she has been with someone her own age. 

"I'm not allowed to be anywhere without permission." She twists out of his grasp and turns, seeing his face in the pale moonlight from the window. His eyes are completely covered by a pair of dark glasses, and this upsets her because the eyes are how she judges a person. But the rest of his face is kind and honest, almost shy and somber. He has a good face, she decides, although she wishes she could see all of it. 

He is studying her as well, but it does not make her uncomfortable. After a moment she moves from him to the desk; and he does not try and stop her. "What were you looking for in here?" she asks, curious to know what would make this young man risk his life. "Was it incriminating evidence against my husband?" 

"So there is some then." He smiles for the first time, and it transforms his whole face, making the seriousness melt away. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where to search?" 

She looks at him incredulously, not realizing he is only teasing her. "Only if I want to be dead by sunrise. Charles may be many things; but he's not stupid. He doesn't leave things that could ruin him just lying around for anyone to find. If he did he would have fallen from power long ago." She says the last part wistfully, as though she cannot wait for her husband's demise. The stranger doesn't blame her, he has witnessed the brutality of Charles Xavier more than once. 

"I'm sorry," he says, although he isn't sure why. He is finding himself drawn to this sad eyed woman, wanting to reach out and connect with her, the wife of his greatest enemy. 

She senses his need to help her and it scares her. Charles helped her, and her life became a nightmare. Why would this man be any different? 

"I think you'd better leave before you're found," she tells him, walking toward the door. He grabs her arm as she passes, and puts a finger to her lips. 

He seems to be listening intently to a voice she can't hear. A radio transmitter in his ear, she surmises, or telepathy. However poor his burgling skills, at least he is intelligent enough not to go into the lion's den alone. 

"Demarcen is looking for you," he tells her. "He's headed this way, we can't leave through the door." He walks quickly over to the big windows, dragging her behind him. 

"What do you think you're doing?!" She can hear footsteps in the hall and the door of the room next to the study opens. She knows what will happen if Demarcen discovers her in here, but at least she knows. She knows nothing about this strange man. 

"I'm taking you with me." He lets go of her arm as he undoes the lock and swings the window out, nimbly climbing up onto the sill. "Come on." His voice is insistent. 

She is caught in a terrible moment of indecision, torn between her need to obey the man who has controlled her life for more than a decade and this unforseen offer of freedom which seems too good to be true. And life has taught her that such things usually are. 

The door next to the study closes and the footsteps grow louder. 

The man reaches out his hand. "I promise I won't hurt you," he says, and she believes him. 

They jump out onto the street, close the window, and duck into the alley. Demarcen will know that she left the house and come searching for her; but they will have had a fair sized head start by then. For once, she is grateful they moved to the city. They would have been immediately seen running across the wide expanses of the Westchester mansion's lawn. Here there are places to hide. 

He takes her hand in his and they run swiftly through the faintly lit alleys for several blocks before slowing to catch their breath. To her surprise she begins to laugh, deeply and joyfully, something she has not done since childhood. She feels as though she can finally breathe again, and the veil of dispair has been lifted, allowing her to see with stunning clarity. 

She stands on tiptoes and throws her arms around her savior's neck, murmuring her gratitude. He laughs with her, although his return of her embrace is slightly awkward. He probably did not expect such an enthusiastic response to his actions; but he does not complain. 

She separates herself from him, suddenly shy. "Thank you," she tells him, her voice shaking as the initial rush of happiness is tinged with a mixture of relief and apprehension that they will find her. 

"Thank you for trusting me. I know you didn't have much reason to." He wonders why he trusts her as he reaches out to gently wipe a tear from her face. "So what now, Red? Where do you want to go?" 

"I don't know. I don't think there is a place for me to go. Charles has made my family believe that he's perfect, and I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have him. They'd tell him immediately where I am; and even if they didn't, that's the first place he'd search. I don't have any friends of my own either. Charles wouldn't allow it. There are a few women I socialize with; but I trust them even less than my family." She sits down on a bench, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the autumn chill. 

"You have a friend now," he replies, draping her shoulders with his jacket as he sits beside her. 

"A friend who's name I don't even know," she grins. "Or don't you have one?" 

He smiles back. "As a matter of fact, I do." He offers her his hand. "Hello, I'm Scott Summers; but my friends call me Slim." 

"Woah, a name and a nickname. I'm impressed." 

"My cup runneth over." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Slim Summers," she says, shaking his hand. "I'm Jean. You can call me Jean, or Jeannie, or Red, or even Tallulah. Just not Mrs. Xavier." 

"I think I can handle that." A gusty wind springs up, and they watch the dry, crackling leaves skitter and dance in the light of the streetlamps. Her euphoria is fading as the seriousness of her situation settles in. Charles will have her killed for this betrayal if he ever gets wind of her whereabouts. She has to disappear as quickly as possible. 

As if he can read her mind, Slim stands and looks around to make sure they weren't followed. "We'd better keep moving," he tells her. "We don't want to take any chances." 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks as they walk through the streets of the city. 

"I was just wondering why you wear sunglasses at night," she admits. "I was trying to decide whether it was because of a medical condition or a bizzare fashion sense." 

He pulls her into an alley and partially lifts his glasses. A thin beam of red light shoots out, hitting the wall and ricochetting elaborately off of several garbage cans before smashing into an old mirror. She stares in amazement. The mirror had been cracked; but there's nothing left now but powder. 

"You're a mutant." 

"Yes. I can punch through solid metal with my blasts, and could probably take out a small army; but I prefer to use them for tricks like that. It's helped my pool game immensely." He is enjoying her astonishment at how lightly he's treating the subject, which is a small surprise to him as well. Although he still has occasional lapses into bitterness about his power, he has slowly come to accept it as a gift rather than a curse, and realize that constant angsting about it would only bring him more misery. Angst, like everything else, is best in moderation. 

"So you have to wear the glasses all the time?" she asks as they move back to the main street and continue walking. "Even when you sleep? What are they made of?" 

"Reed Richards and Tony Stark designed them out of ruby quartz, the only substance besides my eyelids that can hold the beams back. This pair is tinted black to make me seem less conspicuous. Before they helped me I had to keep myself tightly blindfolded, so that I didn't accidentally kill anyone." His voice darkens, as if he's trying to hold back anger or hurt. "It was during that time I had my first encounter with Charles Xavier and his Alliance. It's something I don't like to even remember, much less talk about." 

After several minutes she tenatively breaks the silence, telling him in halted, hesitant words things she has never told anyone. The story of how she had met Charles Xavier at the age of twelve, when he had rescued her from the mental institution and the hellish, chaotic mess her mind had become. How she had thought of him as a god, perfect and infallible, and she had worshiped the ground he walked on, as she had allowed him to carve out a piece of her soul. How happy she had been when he declared his love to her and she had married him, just weeks shy of her nineteenth birthday. How foolish she had been to be so blind to who he really was. It is too painful to describe in any detail the horrors of the next five years, the constant abuse and torment she had endured, all the evil she had witnessed; and she chokes on her words. 

"It's okay," he says, "you don't have to tell me." 

"I want to," she insists. "I don't want to have to hide the truth any more. I'm so very tired of keeping secrets." 

"I know," he says, "But it's too soon. I want you to be sure, I don't want you sharing anything you're not ready to. And when you are ready, I'll be there to listen, and to help." He brushes a lock of hair from her face. "I want to heal you. I want to love you. I want to make you whole again. I want that more than I've ever wanted anything; and it's making me crazy because I don't know why I feel this way." 

Lips meet, hesitant and shy, barely brushing. 

"I think I could love you," she breathes. 

He looks into her eyes and knows she already does. 

Their kiss deepens as he pulls her to him, melting into her. 

They go to an all-night diner and order strong black coffee while they discuss the best way to get her out of the city. Demarcen's usual mode of operation is to find out everything she has done wrong and then make a full report to Charles, so she does not have to worry about being found telepathically. He will realize she's missing; but he will not bother himself with her until Demarcen has taken care of all the details. He has more important things to do than search for her; and there is no doubt in his mind that she will return. 

As they sip their coffee he fills her in on what he was doing at the party, and why he was looking for information on Xavier. He is a member of People Against Xavier, he tells her, an organization comprised of both mutants and ordinary humans whose goal is to expose the injustices and crimes committed by the Xavier Alliance for Coexistence. She has heard of them before, and always found it amusing when the nightly news reported on the disruptive and volatile nature of PAX, accusing them of inciting violence and trying to undermine all the wonderful work done by Xavier and his Alliance. 

"Did your friend get out all right?" she asks. 

He looks at her curiously. "What friend would that be?" 

"The brunette who was doing such a good job of distracting Demarcen while you tried your hand at espionage. I assume she's the one who warned you he was coming." 

"Her name's Natalie Ryan. I think you'd like her. She found out about us from an ex-boyfriend and joined a little over a year ago because she thought it would be fun to play revolutionary. Since then she's realized how serious this is and has become quite a valuable asset. Nat's smart and plays it by the book. Your husband's thug won't suspect a thing; and I would have been contacted if she didn't check in." 

She absently traces a design on the ceramic tabletop with her finger. "I could end this all," she says. "I could bring Charles down; but I'm too scared." 

He covers her hand with his. "You don't have to be scared anymore, Red. I can protect you. But your word against his is not going to count for much, especially when he puts his spin on it." 

"No," she says, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be my word. I have concrete proof of some of the things he's done. More than enough to ruin him forever." 

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I thought you said he didn't keep things like that just lying around?" 

"He doesn't. I keep them. Notes, orders, contacts. A few are originals I managed to save from being put in the shredder; but most are copies." She laughs. "For years I got a thrill out of each new piece of damning evidence I hoarded away; but that's all I did, hoard them. No one ever knew; and sometimes I wanted to keep it that way. To let them become public knowledge would be like stabbing Charles in the back; and I didn't have the courage to do that." 

"A few weeks ago that changed," she continues. "I just couldn't take it any longer. I'm twenty-four years old and I feel seventy inside. Betraying Charles may kill me; but staying with with him will too, only not as quickly. So I took everything I had and put it in an envelope and addressed it to Senator Kelly, because I believe he would do the right thing with it." 

"What happened then?" 

"I decided to wait a little while before I mailed it. Just to make sure that this was what I wanted to do. I put the envelope back in it's hiding place and waited." She sighs. "Charles became...upset with me for another reason and I lost my resolve to do anything with the information. I was a coward. I didn't want to be hurt any more in the here and now even though I knew that in the long run it was the better thing to do. I'm sorry." 

"You don't have anything at all to be sorry for," he tells her firmly, almost angrily. "None of what happened was your fault. You were a child when Xavier got his hands on you. He used and abused and manipulated and controlled you for years. I'm surprised that you could stand up to him as much as you did." 

"You know, in my logical mind I realize that but it doesn't make any difference. No matter how hard I try, deep inside I'll always believe it's all my fault." 

He doesn't know what to say to that, and so he says nothing at all. 

He pays the check and they leave the diner with the intention of going to the closest PAX safehouse where they can get some rest and then consult with others on the best way to get the information out of Xavier's house. She feels a great sense of relief that she is no longer alone, that she won't have to be on her guard constantly, that someone will watch out for her. 

They go out through the back since morning is coming and traffic is picking up. There will be too many cars to keep track of, and they don't want to be spotted if they were trailed. The alley behind the diner is large and open. Disassembled scaffolding leans against the opposite wall from the dumpster, and stray cats scatter as the door locks shut behind them. 

Demarcen steps out from behind a stack of crates. 

He aims a revolver at them and fires as Slim throws himself at Jean, knocking her to the ground, the slug striking his arm. He recovers quickly and goes down on one knee, raising his glasses and firing seemingly at nothing. The beam hits the corner of the dumpster and bounces off into Demarcen's gun, driving it from his hand and sending it skidding down the alley toward the street, out of anyone's reach. 

Slim begins to stand and Demarcen rushes him, smashing him into the wall with brutal force, knocking the wind from his lungs and preventing him from firing again. 

Forgotten for the moment, Jean picks up a piece of lumber lying near the scaffold and swings it through the air without hesitation. A loud crack resounds as it comes into contact with the back of Demarcen's head. He staggers forward, catches himself on the wall; then turns and lunges at her. So shocked is she that he didn't go down that she doesn't have time to raise her weapon again and they fall, his weight pressing her into the cold stone ground. 

His mask of civility is completely gone, the beast inside him breaking free as his hands encircle her throat, strangling her, his body pinning her in place. She rakes her nails down his face, drawing blood; and he screams in rage as she gouges at his eyes. His grip on her neck loosens just for a moment; but it's enough for her draw another breath and keep from passing out. 

Unseen, Slim comes up beside them and kicks Demarcen with all his strength, unsetting him and allowing her to crawl out from under him, gasping for breath. He grabs her ankle and tries to drag her back and she kicks at him, the sharp heel of her shoe connecting with his arm and forcing his fist open. 

Demarcen's face smashes into the ground as Slim jumps on his back and slams his head down. Remarkably, the assassin remains still. 

Tenatively, Jean approaches with the revolver in her hand. "Is he dead?" 

"He should be. The first time you hit him should have --" With an inhuman howl Demarcen launches himself off the ground and toward her. She brings the revolver up and fires off four rounds in quick succession. Two hit him in the chest, one in the leg, and the last in the face. He crumples at her feet, a pool of dark red blood spreading rapidly away from his body. 

She walks to Slim and drops the gun. "I guess he is now." Her voice is exhausted; but there is no regret in it. 

She takes off his jacket and rips off a large piece, using it to staunch to flow of blood from his arm. "Are you all right, Jeannie?" He winces in pain as she ties the fabric tightly around the wound. 

"I'm fine. But you're not. You have to get to the hospital." 

He shakes his head. "Impossible. I have a warrent out for my arrest and they have to report all gunshot wounds. There's a doctor at the safehouse, I'll last until we get back there." He picks up the gun with his good arm and tucks it into his waistband. 

"I'm not going with you," she says. "I can't. Charles is going to find out about Demarcen and he'll kill me. I need to get the envelope before he discovers what happened." 

"Won't he just know? Isn't this the all powerful telepath Charles Xavier?" 

She brushes dirt off of her dress and helps him to his feet. "Charles doesn't like to keep constant tabs on other people. It makes him uncomfortable to have someone else so close for so long. He's worked for years practicing how to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the least amount of time. It's very unlikely he knows what happened tonight; and he won't suspect anything until Demarcen's body is discovered." 

"Well then we'd better get back to the house and get the envelope." 

"I have to go by myself," she tells him as he starts toward the street. 

"Are you insane?" he asks. "Do you think I'm going to let you go back there by yourself?" 

"You're injured," she says, "it's not a good idea. And I don't want to put your life in danger any more than I already have. Please, Slim, I have to do this myself. Let me go." 

He kisses her gently. "I don't want to lose you. Not so soon after finding you, not ever." 

The sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon when she arrives back at the house and lets herself in the front door as quietly as she can. Charles is nowhere to be seen. He could be in his study working; or sleeping in his room. She says a silent prayer that he's not waiting for her in her room as she opens the door. 

She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that the room is empty. She makes her way over to the bed to retrieve the envelope from where she hid it in a slit in the underside of the mattress; and the decanter of Amontillado on the night stand catches her eye. 

She remembers leaving it out and berates herself on being so stupid. If Charles had seen it there would have been hell to pay. She starts to put it back in the cabinet and stops. 

Charles does not control her. Not any more. Not ever again. 

She pours herself a glass of the sherry and drinks it slowly, relishing every second, a feeling of satisfaction at having so deliberately defied him spreading through her, warming her. 

As she sets the glass down and turns toward the bed a wave of dizziness washes over her, and she clutches the edge of the table for support. The world begins to spin faster and faster, drawing her strength away and forcing her to her knees as the poison travels through her body. 

She wonders how she ever could have thought she'd succeed. Charles winning, destroying her completely, is a fate as inevitable as death. 

Still she refuses to give up, dragging herself as far as the end of the bed before collapsing. She hears the door open and raises her head, needing to face him at the end, hoping against hope that he will show some remorse, some regret, something to show that he had cared for her once, no matter how small or long ago. 

Charles stands over her, and she sees nothing but hatred for her in his eyes. 

His voice is cold and mocking. "I told you your drinking would be the death of you." He reaches down and pulls her roughly to her feet. 

She struggles against him with all the strength she has left, with all the hidden anger that she has felt for him through the years, with all the love and hope that she has so recently realized possible. It is not enough. 

She feels the icy steel between her shoulders and gasps as he plunges the knife into her flesh. It does not hurt as much as she had thought it might; but she can taste the blood in her mouth, feel it running down her back in warm, silent rivers. 

He releases her and she falls silently to the floor, her life pouring out of her. As the darkness closes in she sees Slim's face before her and she smiles. He looks so real. 

And then 

Nothing. 

  
  



End file.
